We’ve gone through this mile,
Through every tear and every trial.
Though the road was rough to my mind,
You never once left me behind.

I’m still grateful we took this way,
For You were with me every day.
Oh, You gave me the key,
And now I’m truly free.

Because You called me Your own,
No longer wandering, no longer alone.
You came to redeem what was sown,
And made this weary heart Your home.

That I should bear forth fruit,
Rooted deeply in the Truth.
And why would I leave
The very Truth that made me breathe?

Oh, how beautiful it is to see
That You carried me to the tree.
Where love was written over me
My Rabbi… forever leading me.

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I was surrounded by a couple recently, and something one of them did stopped me mid-thought.

They pulled out a sticky note, scribbled something, and slid it across the table to the other. Curious me leaned in like a child at a window. I couldn't read the note, but I caught the response. A little clock-it hand gesture. And the lip read: "Yes, you're right."

Small. Unnecessary. Private.

But it takes someone who has chosen themselves first to do that. To remind their partner and themselves of their own value. Out loud. On paper. In public.

I love the idea of giving yourself to someone wholeheartedly. That chemistry, that union? Beautiful. Almost sacred.

But here's the hardest truth I know:

The unity of two as one only exists because there was a one before the one.

What pains me is how easily we forget who we were before we met that person. We fall in love, and suddenly our edges blur. Our name becomes we. Our wants become ours. We start believing love is sacrificial.

And yes, sometimes you sacrifice. You bend. You give.

But never at the expense of your own happiness. Never!

Look in that mirror. Judge yourself first. Don't leave that job to anyone else. And when you're done being harsh, be your own encourager. Speak to yourself the way you'd speak to your best friend after they've fallen.

Treat yourself. Draw from the well of your own source. Relive the experiences that still give you nostalgia, the ones that shaped you before anyone else showed up. Let them remind you who you are.

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Be your own happy. Play with colours. Write to yourself every day if it makes you smile. Be your own sun.

The desire for self intimacy isn't selfish. It's simply the wanting to be you, fully, even when everyone else is watching, even when work is pressing, even when everything that isn't you crowds your everyday. It's choosing yourself in the middle of the noise.

I love when someone tells me, "I'm going on a solo trip."

Like, why wouldn't you? You're too cool not to.

God didn't create love to be idolized. He created it so we could love Him, ourselves, and our people in that order. There's a sequence written in the Word, and we keep skipping the middle part.

So if you made it this far, do yourself justice. Take yourself seriously. Date yourself first. Not as a trend. As a return.

How're you doing, joor? My reveries :)

Hit reply. I'm listening.

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I have a folder on my phone labeled “moments.”

Not “important.” Not “memories.” Just moments.

I used to think that was modest of me. Like I wasn’t claiming too much for these blurry, random snapshots of life. But I’ve realized the opposite is true.

Today was one of those days. I had nothing to do (not entirely nothing), but nothing that felt worth my time. So I opened the folder. I scrolled.

And I found myself smiling at things I’d completely forgotten.

A blurry photo of my friend mid-laugh, caught at the exact wrong (right) moment. A screenshot of a text that said something so silly I couldn’t stop laughing. I enjoy reading previous chats especially when I’m bored.

I thought those moments were normal when they happened.

Now, they made my entire day.

I thought I was documenting for the moment. For the memory.

But the real gift of a photo, a note, a folder called “moments” — it’s not for then. It’s for now.

It’s the after-effect. The “oh wow, I did this.”

The “oh wow, I was there.”

The “oh wow, I was loved in ways I didn’t even notice.”

That’s the poetry of ORDINARY things.

I had an outing with my friend last week. I wanted to watch a particular movie.

Backstory: we’d planned it for the longest time, but for some reasons, it just wasn’t coming together.

And she wasn’t even a fan of the movie.

But she made out time.

I thought she came because she was free. Turns out — she had plans. Somewhere else to be. But she saw the need to meet up to my expectations.

That might feel like the ordinary needs of friendship.

But to me, it was special.

It was kind.

I love taking photos. Sometimes embarrassing pictures of my friends. I always say — I’m not your friend if I don’t have just one picture of you where you look beautifully weird.

Because the essence of documenting isn’t for the moment. It’s for the after-effect.

I used to think gratitude was about paying attention. Now I think it’s also about re-attention. About coming back to the things you dismissed and finding treasure there.

It’s the quiet grace of how the simple reminds us to be grateful.

There is joy in the silly text you almost deleted.

There is a whole life tucked inside the things you once thought were too insignificant to remember.

The miracle is never in the extra.

It’s in the way the ordinary keep showing up for us, turning little moments into memories we trust.

With love,
Joy ♡

Thank you for receiving Joy’s letters. How have you been feeling lately? I’d love to hear from you :)

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I’ve asked myself this question so many times.

Because I’m a Christian, should I wear Mary Amaka? Should I dress in a way that signals to everyone around me that I belong to a certain church, a certain doctrine, a certain “brand” of Christianity?

I understand the doctrines. I understand the church culture, the Christian organizations, and how much it’s affected women. I’ve seen the rules. I’ve heard the sermons. I’ve felt the weight of expectations placed on my shoulders simply because I showed up with a desire to follow Jesus.

But here’s the honest truth: I don’t even feel comfortable in these clothes.

I’d prefer my own choice of wears. My own style. My own expression. The clothes that make me feel like me, and not a walking billboard for a denomination.

And yet, the comments come.

“A Christian woman doesn’t know her style.”

“She shakes in confidence.”

“She ain’t cool.”

Hideous. Dismissive. Designed to shrink you back into the box they built for you.

The Unspoken War Over Christian Women’s Bodies

Let’s be real: the church has been fighting a war over women’s bodies for centuries. And we’ve been losing. Modesty isn’t boring.

We’ve been told that our clothes are a “testimony.” That we’re responsible for men’s thoughts. That if we wear something that makes us feel beautiful, we’re distracting from the gospel. That modesty means invisibility. That confidence is pride. That style is worldliness.

We’ve been handed rulebooks. Fingertip measurements. Shoulder coverage requirements. Fabric guidelines. A whole system designed to keep us constantly checking ourselves—not against God’s standard, but against other people’s anxiety.

And somewhere along the way, we stopped asking the most important question: Is any of this actually biblical?

The Heart: What Modesty Actually Means

Here’s the truth the rulebooks miss: Modesty is primarily about the heart, but the heart always shows up in what you wear.

You cannot separate the two, but you can stop letting the church flip the order on you.

The Bible’s definition of modesty:

“Do not let your adorning be external, but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.” (1 Peter 3:3-4)

The heart issue is about attention. True biblical modesty asks: “Am I dressing to draw attention to ME, or to reflect the character of God?”

If your clothing is a cry for validation, an attempt to weaponize your beauty for power, or a shield to hide your insecurity, that’s a heart problem. Modesty, at its core, is humility. It’s saying, “My worth does not come from my shape or my brand; it comes from being hidden in Christ.”

But the clothes are the visible overflow.

If your heart is humble, your clothes will naturally reflect a sense of dignity. But here’s the nuance the rulebooks miss: Modesty is highly cultural and contextual.

A bikini on a beach might be perfectly modest; a bikini in a boardroom is foolish. A knee-length skirt in one culture is conservative; in another, it’s provocative. The Bible does not give a one-size-fits-all inch-measurement.

IT DOESN’T !!! 🫩

The Trap We’ve Set For Women

Here is the damaging lie: If you dress “modestly,” you are a good girl. If you dress “immodestly,” you are a stumbling block for men.

The Bible flips this entirely.

In Matthew 5:28, Jesus says if a man looks at a woman to lust, he has committed adultery in his heart. The responsibility for lust lies with the looker, not the looked-at. You are not the Holy Spirit for men. You are not responsible for managing their eyeballs.

The church often burdens women with the modesty conversation while men sit idle. Real modesty doesn’t say “cover up to protect men.” Real modesty says “dress in a way that honors God and reflects your identity as a beloved daughter, regardless of who is watching.”

The Cultural Vs. Theological Confusion

Here’s the question I’ve been wrestling with: Why does the church treat personal style like a threat?

Because culture changes. And the church has a history of confusing culture with theology.

The “Christian clothes” you’re expected to wear? That’s not in the Bible. That’s a cultural tradition. It was someone else’s preference, someone else’s comfort zone, that got elevated to “biblical standard.” And now you’re carrying the weight of their anxiety.

But here’s the truth: God made you creative. He made you unique. He gave you preferences, tastes, and a sense of beauty that is yours. And He doesn’t want you to suppress that to fit into a box.

Your style is not a threat to the gospel. It’s an invitation. When you walk into a room looking like yourself—comfortable, confident, and kind—people notice. They feel safe. They think: “She’s got something different. She’s not trying to impress me. She’s just… here.”

That’s the gospel. That’s presence. That’s real.

The Gospel Is Not Boring.

Let me ask you something: when our clothes are boring, predictable, and screaming “I’m different and superior,” who do you want to preach to?

We’re meant to bring the gospel to people through everything (even with our clothes) But if we dress like aliens from a planet called “Church Culture,” who’s going to listen? Who’s going to feel safe enough to ask us about our hope?

Jesus wore the clothes of His culture. He didn’t wear a sign around His neck that said “I am the Son of God.” He walked among people—tax collectors, prostitutes, fishermen, sinners—and they didn’t run from His fashion sense. They ran to Him because He looked like them. He felt like them. He wasn’t distant—He was present.A reference post

The gospel isn’t boring. And neither are the people who carry it.

The Test for Your Wardrobe

If you want to know if your style reflects true modesty, ask yourself these three questions:

1. Am I dressing to provoke? (To make someone lust, feel envy, or gaze at me for my physical form?)

2. Am I dressing to hide? (Using oversized hoodies to disappear because I am ashamed of my body?)

3. Am I dressing to distract? (Is my outfit so flashy, expensive, or revealing that the first thing people notice is my body/clothes, rather than the peace on my face?)

If your clothes cause you to obsess over your body, or cause others to trip, you adjust out of love—not out of fear.

The Clothes That Actually Matter

At the end of the day, the Bible is pretty clear about what we should wear. It’s not about the fabric. It’s about the heart.

“Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” (Colossians 3:12)

Those are the clothes that matter.

Compassion. Kindness. Humility. Gentleness. Patience.

You can wear the most “Christian” outfit in the world and still be naked in the things that actually count. So let me say this as clearly as I can:

Your style doesn’t disqualify you. Your identity doesn’t come from your wardrobe. And you don’t have to wear Mary Amaka to be a real Christian.

What I’m Choosing Instead

I’m choosing to wear what I feel comfortable in. What makes me feel like me; confident, peaceful, and ready to love people well.

I’m choosing to believe that my body is not a scandal. That my beauty is not a threat. That my style is not a theological statement. It’s just me.

And I’m choosing to trust that the people who matter, the ones who are watching, the ones who are hungry for something real—they won’t be drawn to me because of my skirt length or my fabric choices.

They’ll be drawn to me because I’m present. Because I’m kind. Because I look at them with love instead of judgment. Because I’m not hiding behind a uniform, i’m standing in my identity.

Let’s Normalize This

Let’s start normalizing modesty in its own way.

Not as a rulebook. Not as a weapon. Not as a way to control women’s bodies.

But as a heart posture. As a way of saying: “I’m not here to perform. I’m here to be. And I want you to feel comfortable being with me.”

Let’s stop oversexualizing modesty. Let’s stop weaponizing it against each other. And let’s start showing the world a Christianity that looks like freedom—not constraint.

Because the gospel isn’t boring. And neither are the people who carry it.

The One Question to Ask Before You Walk Out the Door

Here’s my final test—the one that actually works:

“If Jesus were physically sitting across from me at coffee today, would I feel embarrassed, ashamed, or distracted by what I’m wearing? Or would I feel like myself—confident, peaceful, and ready to love Him and others?”

If you would feel awkward sitting across from Jesus in it, change. Modesty isn’t about shrinking. It’s about taking up your space with dignity, not shame. It’s about dressing for the audience of One, and not for the gaze of culture.

For the longest time, I thought Christ was separate from God.

And I don’t think I was the only one confused by this.

The Trinity has always felt like one of those Christian doctrines you hear explained in church, nod at because everyone else seems to understand it, and then quietly wonder about later.

How can God be one, yet the Father, Son and Holy Spirit be three?

I had always understood God through the language of relationship. My relationship with Him has often felt like that of a daughter with her Father. So when I heard Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I naturally imagined three distinct beings: God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

But today, something shifted in me.

During the sermon, I kept hearing the words:

“I came as flesh to die for your sins.”

And suddenly, the incarnation felt different to me.

John 1:1 says, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

Then, only a few verses later:

“The Word became flesh.”

The Word was with God.

The Word was God.

And the Word became flesh.

That is Jesus.

It made me realise that perhaps the question isn’t, “Is Jesus God or is He different from God?”

Perhaps the mystery is that Jesus is truly God while being distinct from the Father.

Colossians 2:9 says that “in Christ all the fullness of the Deity lives in bodily form.”

Philippians 2 tells us that Christ existed in the very nature of God, yet took the nature of a servant and became human, humbling Himself even to death on a cross.

So Jesus wasn’t merely a man carrying God’s message.

He was God who came near in human flesh.

And yet Scripture never collapses the Father and the Son into the same person.

Jesus prays to the Father.

Jesus speaks of the Father.

Jesus says that He will ask the Father to send another Advocate—the Holy Spirit.

At His baptism, the Son is in the water, the Spirit descends, and the Father’s voice speaks from heaven.

Three.

And yet Christianity has never claimed three Gods.

Deuteronomy says:

“The LORD our God, the LORD is one.”

Jesus says:

“I and the Father are one.”

And then, in Matthew 28:19, He tells His disciples to baptise people in the singular name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

One name.

Father.

Son.

Holy Spirit.

Three persons.

One God.

I know no earthly analogy can fully explain this. Every analogy eventually becomes too small for something as incomprehensible as God.

But the closest picture I can offer is this:

Imagine something whose unity is not destroyed by the distinction within it. The Father is not the Son. The Son is not the Spirit. The Spirit is not the Father.

Yet none of them is a fraction of God.

The Father is God.

The Son is God.

The Holy Spirit is God.

And there is still only one God.

Perhaps that is why the Trinity is not merely something to calculate.

It is something to behold.

God as Father—the One who loves.

God as Son—the One who came near, became flesh, and gave Himself for us.

God as Spirit—the One who remains with us and lives within us.

Not three Gods competing for our attention.

One God.

Three persons.

And somehow, in the middle of that mystery, there is an invitation to relationship.

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Maybe that is why my relationship with God has always felt so deeply like a Father and daughter relationship.

Because He is Father.

And He has also come near to me in the Son.

And He remains with me through the Spirit.

I may not be able to explain the Trinity perfectly.

But today, I think I understand why I don’t have to.

Some things about God are not meant to become smaller so that the human mind can contain them.

Some things are meant to leave us in awe.

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However, I’ve got to get groceries at exactly 9 a.m., and it was raining—not too heavy—but I can’t risk getting wet so early in the morning. I took an umbrella with me, and for a moment, I just played with it while walking there. I didn’t care who was watching; it just felt like abrupt peace.

Fortunately, there was no noise because most people were in their homes, and if you lived in Lagos, you’d realize peace and quiet is honored.

There are so many times I have thought: where did all my childlike wonder go? Looking at the fridge and wondering how the lights turn off, or basically using my crayon to colour the petals just because they felt cute to me—how did it all disappear? When I didn’t have internet, I did a lot more things than I do now, but that’s not an excuse. My authenticity isn’t wired by how much quality of life is revealed to me; it’s left to me to find the beauty of everything again.

Who am I when I’m alone? Is she cool? Or is she just the same… What am I writing in my journal? Is my purple scrapbook bored of me? I hope it’s not thinking I’ve lost my taste. And more so, I write to experience everything twice or thrice… The more I read them, the more they feel alive again.

Outro: Moonlight says a black boy looks blue in moonlight because the moonlight changes his appearance into something blue, dreamy, or melancholic—without actually changing who he is. When we keep thinking the world determines our colour, of course that thought becomes reality.

Thank you for reading.

link:

Buy me a matcha:)

The Joy letters,

To my reveries.

A question, if you’ll allow it:

What did you do the last time you forgot the world was watching?

Source: From Pinterest📍

This story was lovingly written together by two friends, each lending a voice to the same dream.

The market of Nnewi was a living thing. It breathed with the cries of traders, pulsed with the rhythm of feet on red earth, and shimmered with the colours of woven baskets and dyed wrappers.

Some came there to trade.

Some came there to survive.

And some…

Without knowing it,

Came there to have their lives rewritten.

Adaobi

The market knew my footsteps before it knew my name.

I moved through it like a river finding its way through stones.

Three bowls rested upon my head—one filled with fresh vegetables, another with ground crayfish, the third with palm oil carefully wrapped in leaves.The yellow beads around my neck belonged to my grandmother.

The red ones marked my first market day.

The blue ones my father had brought back from Onitsha.

I wore my history around my neck,

around my waist,

inside the careful braids that fell past my shoulders.

The afternoon loved me.

The sun found my beads and scattered them like prayer offerings across the market.

Then…

I felt it.

That prickling at the back of my neck.

That knowing every woman understands before anyone teaches her.

Someone was watching me.

Not the passing glance of a stranger.

Not curiosity.

Something quieter.

Something that lingered.

I turned.

Olofin

I have dreams.

In some, Baba mi carries his cutlass and beckons me and my brothers to come along.

In others, my betrothed smiles as I prostrate before her parents.

But in all of them, Abike stands upon that altar, making her vows to the man she chose instead of me.

I should not be thinking about this again.

I promised Baba mi I would live another life—one that did not involve Abike or the family I failed to honour.

After all, the shame of my heartbreak had followed me from the waters of Awori to Nnewi.

A town almost as old as the Walls of Benin, whose forests stayed silent beneath the sun yet whispered the secrets of deities after dusk.

This was supposed to be a new beginning.

Baba mi called it “a chance to get over a married woman and find love again.”

Yet my eyes remained clouded with the kind of grief that surrounds reason and eats away at it like acid.

It had been months since I last saw her.

Still, whenever I closed my eyes, I found her smile waiting for me.

Those dimples…

I had tied every hope I owned to them.

Then memory would remind me she had chosen another man, and my heart would begin mourning all over again.

So I left my people.

My customs.

Everything that knew my name.

If I could not have the woman I wanted…

then I would at least chase the dream that had survived my sorrow.

I would become a bard.

A keeper of stories.

A man whose songs might heal someone else’s heart, even if they could not heal his own.

“But first,” I muttered, patting my stomach, “I really should find something to eat.”

Adaobi

He stood beside the yam seller’s stall.

Tall.

Like an iroko tree that had forgotten how to bend.

His skin was the colour of dark honey.

His agbada the deep brown of fertile earth.

His eyes…

His eyes looked like they had travelled farther than the road beneath his feet.

My face hardened.

Another man.

Another pair of eyes that would mistake beauty for invitation.

I adjusted the bowls upon my head.

And walked on.

Yet somehow,

I could still feel his gaze resting gently upon my back.

Olofin

She walked like someone who belonged to the earth.

Not because she was beautiful—

though she was.

Not because every bead caught the sunlight—

though they did.

But because she carried ordinary things

with extraordinary grace.

To everyone else,

they were goods for sale.

To me,

they looked like a crown.

Before I realised what I was doing,

my tongue betrayed me.

“Afun gi nanya…

mummy bekem…

achalugo…”

The Igbo stumbled awkwardly out of my Yoruba mouth.

She stopped.

Slowly.

She turned.

Adaobi

“Can I have a word with you?”

His voice was deep.

Like distant thunder before rainfall.

“Me?”

“I have to get home before noon.”

“I won’t keep you.”

Silence stood between us.

Then he smiled.

“No wonder.”

He almost whispered it.

“Your flower seems glowing from miles away.

Even the sun is jealous.”

“Huh?”

I frowned.

“What did you say?”

He stepped closer.

I caught the scent of shea butter,

sandalwood,

and something clean…

Olofin

There are moments

when the heart speaks before wisdom can silence it.

This was one of them.

“I just want to be yours”

The market continued breathing around us.

But for me,

the whole world had become one answer waiting to be spoken.

“If my God permits me…”

I looked into her eyes.

“I want my story to be written along with yours.”

Adaobi

I laughed.

Not because he amused me.

Because disbelief sometimes sounds exactly like laughter.

“Be Mine?”

I shook my head.

“You don’t know me.”

“You don’t know where I come from.”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing.”

I lifted the bowls once more.

Then I walked away.

My steps were firm.

But beneath those bowls,

my hands trembled.

Olofin

She disappeared into the crowd.

Blue beads.

Red earth.

Then nothing.

I remained where I was,

watching the place where she had vanished.

For the first time in many months…

I had forgotten Abike.

And though she did not know it,

She carried the beginning of my next story.

The elders would later say

that destiny did not arrive in Nnewi that afternoon.

It had always been there.

It merely waited

for two strangers

to recognise each other.

I was staring at the mirror, and tried this dramatic lip combo I found from Instagram while I was scrolling few days back. I almost wiped my face because there was someone else I was seeing and it was “ache”. But how could I?. It took me a whole while to master that gorgeous-looking fainted coloured combination.

I attended a lot of events, some were speaking engaging events-you know, the ones where you yearn to take notes from-and I spoke in one of them for a volunteering program, by the way. But there’s one that still haunts me. I think I have mistaken a few lessons and accidentally lost a friend.

I mean the over-engaging sanguine and goofy friend. That almost everyone we both knew admired. (we’re still friends, we just lost our intimacy)

And I don’t want friendships that won’t show me depth, I’m basically just a girl without emotional depth in every relationship I build.

“Letting go” or “Privacy is so sexy” the perfect word, you recite it like poetry until it leaves sores.

Where is the ache? the little things, the “I missed you”, so I decided to call and spend time with you? Where did it all go.

I have spent days finding the trail of how we lost our youthful admiration for each other, but I only found consumption. We love each other; we just haven’t found a way of keeping each other. She grew, and I’m extremely happy, she found her own people. I did too, but we know we’re siblings, we just haven’t found a way to prove it to the world, and I hope we don’t drift too far away to prove we never were.

Somedays I ask, does my Substack even know me? Or am I thoughts here for validation?

That thin line scares me too.

What am I consuming exactly?

The utmost desire: to enjoy my own space… be with myself first outright giving a part of myself to others. But- why did God create friendships or people, if not to carry the world with you? These words struck me at exactly 12:36 a.m.

I enjoy writing to you at midnight or in the early hours of day; I’m not the only one fond of this habit, right?

However, its so overwhelming to realise… no more chattyyy talks, and if we breach the gap now, what’s the assurance that it won’t grow vague again? But right, I just crave my friend back.

After writing this, I fully understand: “Sometimes you need people to be perfect and they can’t be and you hate them forever for not being, even though it isn’t their fault and its not yours either.” - Intermezzo.

Which is okay too,

And so, I choose to keep my friendships simple, fresh, easy and pure; there’s so much capacity to love. why not give to the people God has placed around me?🥹

WITH LOVE,

THE JOY LETTERS.

I love you, and I’m so happy you’re in my digital space.

just for you 🥹🌸

Dear Morning Light,

It’s 8:56 a.m

The sun is creeping through my window, painting golden rectangles across the floor. I am still in bed, wrapped up in blankets, just watching the dust dance in the light. It is one of those quiet mornings where the world has not fully woken up yet, and neither have I. And honestly? That is my favorite kind of morning.

Hi, I am Joy.

Writing has been my thing since college. It is the one habit I never quit, the one I keep coming back to no matter how busy life gets

One little thing about me — I love adding extra letters when I am texting. You know, like heyyy or thank youuu or okayyy. It just makes everything feel softer, cuter, more me. My friends tease me about it, but I think words deserve a little stretch sometimes. Life is serious enough, you know?

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I love people who believe in themselves. There is something so beautiful about watching someone grow, like watching a flower finally decide to bloom. It makes me want to do the same.

I love God. He is my safe place, my morning coffee for the soul. I love music that hits different, the kind that makes you close your eyes and just feel. love reading novels too. Honestly? I would take a book bouquet over a flower bouquet any day. There is something about holding a story in your hands, flipping through pages that reminds you of hope.

I love the smell of rain, that fresh, clean scent that makes everything feel new again(petrichor). And treats? Oh, I love treats. My friends joke that I drink CapriSun like it is water,

but have you tried the orange one?. I love Ribena just as much. And pastries? Flaky, buttery, “melt in your mouth pastries”. I could write a whole page about them, honestly.

I love people who love me. But I will be real, I notice when relationships start to crack. Maybe I pay too much attention. Maybe I am just scared of getting hurt. Either way, I am learning to trust my gut and also give grace. Still, I have the most beautiful friendships. Friends who do not just stay, but grow beside me. Friends who remind me who I am when I forget.

I love love. The easy kind. The kind that makes you want to snuggle up to your favorite person and just say thank you. That is the dream, right?

Lately I have built leisure in watching vlogs, just letting someone else's ordinary days play out on my screen. There is something comforting about it, watching life unfold in small, honest moments. It reminds me that I do not have to be extraordinary to be seen.

Anendlessocean has me in a chokehold — his songs have been on repeat ever since I heard about him. Here's the backstory of how I met my favorite musician: my friend was listening to him, and I was busy that day — in fact, not in the best of moods because of a pile of work. Then I just heard the beats and the lyrics. It was "D2D," and I could feel a shift. Everybody shout GLORYYY!! It was spectacular. I asked who was singing, and she told me his name. I rushed to Spotify, and since then, he's been my favorite Gospel artist.

I used to love drawing. I say "used to" with a little ache, because I miss it. I was not the best sketch artist either way, but I hope to pick it up again one day. Maybe soon. Maybe this season.

And I just realized, I tapped into my notes for a meandering spill. Oh well. That is what journals are for, right?

Thanks for listening.And if you made it all the way to the end and thought, "Hey, I like this Joy person," then go ahead and hit that subscribe button.See you in the next one? ✨

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with Love,

The Joy Letters.

I Don’t think we’re afraid of vulnerability. I think we’re afraid of what vulnerability might cost us.

People often say they’re looking for someone who is “emotionally available.”

Someone who communicates.

Someone who can express their feelings.

But the moment honesty becomes inconvenient, we start looking for the exit.

Because vulnerability sounds beautiful in theory.

It just feels terrifying in practice.

We’re often told to open up.

To let people in.

To tell them how we feel.

But no one really prepares us for what happens after you’ve said the thing you couldn’t unsay.

What if they don’t understand?

What if they stay quiet?

What if they leave?

I think that’s what I was actually afraid of.

Not speaking.

Being witnessed.

There is something unsettling about allowing another person to see the parts of you that haven’t been edited.

The thoughts that don’t sound clever.

The fears that don’t make sense.

The dreams you haven’t said aloud because they feel too fragile to survive someone else’s opinion.

Maybe that’s why I rehearsed conversations in my head before I ever have them.

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As if preparation could somehow protect from disappointment.

It rarely does.

I’ve started to think vulnerability isn’t difficult because we don’t know how to be open.

It’s difficult because honesty gives someone else the power to respond.

And once your heart leaves your mouth, it no longer belongs entirely to you.

Someone else gets to decide what they do with it.

That’s a frightening kind of trust.

I think many of us learned very early that being open wasn’t always safe.

Maybe you cried once and someone laughed.

Maybe you admitted you were struggling and were told to “be strong.”

Maybe you trusted someone with something sacred, only to hear it repeated in another room.

The body remembers those moments.

Even after the mind says it’s over.

So we adapt.

We become impressive instead of intimate.

Funny instead of truthful.

Independent instead of honest about needing people.

We learn to share stories without revealing ourselves.

To talk for hours while saying almost nothing.

It’s remarkable how much a person can speak without ever feeling known.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve confused being visible with being seen.

But visibility isn’t the same as intimacy.

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Someone can know what you had for breakfast every morning this week and still have no idea what keeps you awake at night.

We have more ways to communicate than any generation before us.

Yet meaningful conversations feel strangely rare.

Maybe because we’ve become fluent in broadcasting.

Not in revealing.

Real vulnerability doesn’t sound polished.

It often arrives clumsily.

It pauses.

It changes its mind halfway through a sentence.

It says, “I’m not sure how to explain this.”

It admits, “I don’t actually know what I’m feeling.”

It risks being misunderstood.

And maybe that’s why it feels so human.

I’ve noticed that the people who make me feel safest aren’t necessarily the ones with the best advice.

They’re the ones who don’t rush my honesty.

They don’t interrupt it.

They don’t immediately try to solve it.

They simply make room for it.

There is a kind of love that doesn’t begin with answers.

It begins with attention.

With someone looking at your unedited self and choosing not to look away.

Maybe that’s what we’re all hoping to find.

Not someone who never disappoints us.

But someone who can hold the truth we hand them with gentle hands.

I wonder what would happen if we stopped treating vulnerability like a final exam.

What if it was simply another language?

A language we become more fluent in every time we choose honesty over performance.

Every time we say, “This is who I am today.”

Every time we let another person meet us before we’ve had the chance to perfect ourselves.

Perhaps vulnerability has never been the opposite of strength.

Perhaps it’s the place where strength learns to stop pretending.

Because, in the end, I don’t think the deepest relationships are built by people who never get hurt.

They’re built by people who decide that being fully known is still worth the risk.

Maybe vulnerability has always been a language.

And I will leave you with this question:

“What part of yourself are you still waiting for someone to ask about”?.

Thanks for reading today’s newsletter 🥹💌,

The Joy Letters.

Today’s muse 🌸, My pookies >3.

There is a strange assumption on the internet that the more visible you are, the more creative you must be. Post three times a day, Creative?.

Using social media does not make you creative any more than owning a bookstore makes you a writer.

I can scroll for an hour straight without doing anything else. In fact, I love Pinterest. It feels quiet there. Gentle. Like a room where ideas sit patiently waiting to be found. It has become a safe space for me.

TikTok, on the other hand, has started to feel loud.

And maybe that sounds strange because everyone says it is the fastest place to grow your content. The algorithm is generous. Trends move quickly. Virality feels possible.

But here is the thing: I am a slow creator.

I have been on Substack for a year now, and my posts are few. Not because I cannot write every day, but because I choose not to force myself to. I want writing to remain a place of comfort, not obligation. I want to miss the page enough to return to it willingly.

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Recently, it has become almost impossible to have an intelligent conversation in Nigeria without hearing about Olodo Uprising. Everyone points to social media as the reason for its reach. It spread because people shared it, reposted it, discussed it, turned it into conversations and moments online.

Social media works.

Even while we are talking about it, we are still scrolling.

Still refreshing.

Still consuming.

As a slow creator, a writer, I often find myself wanting something deeper than visibility. I want to tell stories even on days when I post nothing at all. I want my work to exist beyond algorithms and engagement rates.

I want community.

Not an audience that discovers me when I become popular, but people who grow with me from the beginning. People who witness the awkward drafts, the quiet seasons, the uncertain chapters, and stay anyway.

Perhaps that is why Substack feels like home.

Whenever friends tell me, “Post your work on more platforms,” or, “You should start vlogging on Instagram,” I understand what they mean. Those things are beautiful. They work for many creators.

But I do not think I am ready for those demands yet.

Because once you begin, you have to keep showing up.

That may be the biggest lesson I have learned from watching creatives online: consistency eventually becomes part of the art itself.

And sometimes I wonder,

What happens when the people we love slowly become aesthetics for our cameras?

What happens when dinners become content opportunities?

When moments are interrupted by the need to capture them correctly?

What happens when we begin arranging our lives not for ourselves, but for an audience waiting on the other side of a screen?

What if I start wanting every moment to look a particular way because it will be more appealing online?

These questions stay with me.

Being a creative is beautiful.

But perhaps learning how to be a creative without losing yourself in the process is even more important.

Because not every story needs to be performed to be real.

Not every moment needs to become content to be meaningful.

And maybe the best thing a creator can create is a life that still belongs to them when the cameras are off.

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It sounds almost theatrical to admit that out loud, but it took me more courage than I’d like to confess to finally say those words.

Some days, I wonder who I would be without overthinking, yearning, loving, and playing. Especially playing. People are always surprised when I say that because I look so serious. Yet whenever someone asks me to describe myself, that’s one of the first things I mention.

I love to play.

There is something beautiful about admitting that without apologizing for it.

Then there are friendships.

I have always believed friendship is the purest language of love. Losing a friend has hurt me far more than losing a crush ever has. Romantic love is loud enough to fill books and songs, but friendship quietly holds together the ordinary days of our lives. Maybe that’s why its absence echoes for so long.

Sometimes I wonder if I should text first.

Some people are naturally good at checking on others. I’ve never thought of myself as one of them. So whenever someone reaches out just to ask how I’m doing, it feels almost miraculous, as though they paused their own life just to remember mine.

I’ve been blessed with beautiful friends.

Yet there are days when I don’t want to carry my own thoughts. I simply want the comfort of people who know me. And recently I’ve been asking myself a different question.

Why wait for someone else to make me feel loved when I could become that person for someone else?

Perhaps I’m changing.

Then there is God.

No one tells you that walking with Him is both the most beautiful and the most delicate journey you will ever take. Faith can quietly become an aesthetic before it becomes a relationship.

I once heard someone say that” some of us have become followers instead of disciples”.

That sentence unsettled me in the best way. Since then, I have become careful with my heart, asking myself whether I love God for Himself or whether I’ve simply fallen in love with the beauty of looking like someone who does.

There is also the quiet pressure of becoming like the people around you.

I think knowing yourself determines the people you eventually become close to. I didn’t learn that lesson early enough. Some scars are simply the tuition we pay for becoming ourselves.

Still, the Holy Spirit has been patient.

Some evenings I lie beneath the ceiling, tracing invisible shapes with my eyes until my emotions finally catch up with me. I cry. Then, somehow, I laugh.

Not because the pain disappears, but because I find it strangely comforting that my own tears could surprise me.

That something so heavy could leave me feeling lighter.

Maybe that’s how healing begins.

And maybe God’s greatest desire was never that we figure life out as quickly as possible.

Maybe it was simply that we keep returning to Him, becoming a little more ourselves each time.

So perhaps admitting that I’m not doing it right is, after all, one of the first signs that I finally am.

Thank you for reading, If you’d like to continue receiving my free posts, I’d be delighted to have you subscribe to The Joy Letters.✨💌

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Most people think writing is about talent. You either have it or you do not. A lightning bolt of inspiration that strikes the chosen few. The rest of us just stare at blank screens, waiting for something that never comes.

I believed this for years. I would sit down to write, feel nothing, and conclude that I was simply not a writer. The problem was not my lack of talent. The problem was my definition of writing. I thought it was about having something brilliant to say. I thought it was about the finished product, the polished paragraph, the clever turn of phrase.

But writing is not about having something to say. Writing is about finding out what you think. It is a process of discovery.

Here is what I have learned about the subtle art of putting words on a page.

•Writing is mostly rewriting, and that is where the magic lives.

The first draft is always bad. It is supposed to be bad. It is clay, not sculpture. The myth of the writer who pours out perfect prose on the first try is just that, a myth. Real writing happens in the second pass, the third pass, the tenth pass. It happens when you cut the sentence you were in love with because it does not serve the whole. It happens when you realise what you actually meant to say and finally find the words for it. The art is not in the first attempt. The art is in the return.

•Writing is showing up when you do not feel like it.

Inspiration is unreliable. I have come to realize that the best writers just sit down at the same time every day and they put words on the page, even if the words are terrible. Because the act of showing up is what invites inspiration in. You cannot catch a wave if you are not in the water. Showing up is the whole game.

•Writing is not about impressing people.

This one took me a long time to learn. I would write with an audience in my head, a critical audience, and I would try to sound smart. I would use big words. I would construct elaborate sentences. And the writing would feel dead. It was not me. It was a costume. The best writing, the writing that actually connects with people, comes from a place of honesty. It comes from saying what you actually think and feel, not what you think you should think and feel.

• Writing is a practice, not a destination.

There is no finish line. No point where you arrive and call yourself a writer. You are a writer when you are writing. That is it. The novel you finish, the post you publish, the journal entry you scribble at late hours of day. Those are all writing. The practice is the point. It is not about being good. It is about being present. It is about giving yourself permission to be messy and uncertain and unfinished. Because that is what being human is.

How do you actually practice this?

First, lower the bar. Write one sentence. That is it. Just one. If you can do one, you can do two. The hardest part is the beginning. Give yourself permission to write something terrible. You can always fix it later. You cannot fix a blank page.

Second, read what you love. Read it slowly. Notice how the writer does it. Notice the rhythm of their sentences. Notice what makes you feel something. Reading is not a passive activity. It is how you learn the craft. It is how you fill the well.

Third, stop editing as you go. The inner critic is loud, but it does not get a vote in the first draft. Just get the words out. Get them on the page. The editing comes later. You cannot edit what you have not written. Give yourself permission to be messy.

Fourth, write for yourself first. Write the thing you need to read. Write the question you are trying to answer. Write the truth you are afraid to say out loud. If it matters to you, it will matter to someone else. That is the strange paradox of writing.

The subtle art of writing is not about being a genius. It is about being willing to be bad. It is about sitting in the discomfort of not knowing and trusting that something will emerge. It is about showing up again and again, even when you doubt yourself, especially when you doubt yourself.

Writing is how we make sense of the world. It is how we talk to ourselves across time. It is how we leave a trace of our being for someone else to find. It is not a luxury. It is a basic human need. We all have something to say. We all have a voice.

The only question is whether you will let it out.

Thank you for reading, if you’d like to support my work 😊,

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I don't know where to find the perfect words for how I've felt these past weeks. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe some seasons of the heart refuse to be neatly summarized, and the best we can do is sit in their messiness and let the feelings exist without a name.

The weather has been favorable, strangely so. It makes the lingering lighter, easier to carry. I love rainy days, when I’m in doors, yet it's summer. There's something strange about that: craving the sound of rain while the sun refuses to relent. And in that contradiction, I found myself standing still one afternoon, staring at nothing in particular, asking aloud to no one: What am I even doing?

I thought of this a while ago, before I started writing. Do soulmates actually exist, or is it just right timing? Does a "yellow person": someone warm and luminous, the kind who walks into your life and suddenly everything feels brighter always arrive at the right instance? Or is that just something we tell ourselves to make the waiting bearable?.

Writing has always been my escape route. The page has never judged me. It has held my chaos without flinching, absorbed my tears without staining. Lately, I've been searching for God too not in the quiet places. In the pause between breaths. In the ache that doesn't have a name. I laugh sometimes because I was the one who asked God to reveal my deepest shadows. And God took that prayer so seriously.

When my mind began to question my authenticity — who I really was beneath the performances, the versions of me I'd constructed to make others comfortable. I chose space. I stepped back from the noise to listen for the voice that sounded most like mine. And in that quiet, I found myself whispering: My God, feed me with ways that I can worship You in depth. Lord teach me to bow not just with my body, but with my soul. To find You in the fragments, I'm still trying to piece together.

And again, I say it with clarity — not because I'm demanding, but because I'm finally being honest with myself about what I truly want. I want a love steeped with spirit. One that searches for me across the silence, that stretches toward my distance. One that yearns for my presence, knowing that I am worth the journey I want a love that penetrates my interior, that reads the story behind my irises without requiring a footnote from my lips. I want someone to appreciate every side of me, not in spite of their purpose, but because the second hierarchy of his purpose is loving me. I want an equation that says: Here I am is where he stays. Not as a hinge, but as a home. I believe that the One who answered my shadow-prayer so thoroughly is faithful enough to answer this desires too.

And so, with these prayers still on my lips and these longings still unfolding, I find myself in the waiting.

No one talks about the weight of waiting. Not really. We talk about the waiting itself, the countdowns, the "soon". But we avoid talking about the weight; the way it makes ordinary days feel like marathons, the way it tests not your patience but your faith. No one talks about the art of staying still during the healing process. The discipline of not running. The courage of not numbing. Living graciously through the in-between, even when graciousness feels like the furthest thing from what you have to give.

Now, I'm putting the fragments side by side like a jigsaw. Slowly. Patiently. Some pieces don't seem to fit anywhere, and I've learned to set them aside without forcing them. Others click into place with a quiet satisfaction, and I let myself feel that small victory. Now, I'm creating memories out of the subtle; the morning light through the window, the sound of a friend's laughter. Maybe the ordinary matters too. Maybe it matters more than we give it credit for. Maybe the process is just as beautiful as the result, and the result is just an excuse to have walked the path at all.

I should forgive my heart for always thinking love ( I don’t only refer to the romantic kind, love in general) was simple. I carried that belief like a shield ; that love, real love, would be easy, that it would flow without friction, that it would never ask me to stretch beyond my comfort. But I've learned there's a profound difference between easy and simple. Easy requires no effort. Simple still demands everything. It demands presence, honesty, the willingness to be wrong, the grace to forgive, the strength to stay when staying is the hardest thing to do.

So many people treat love as a reward — something you earn after you've proven yourself worthy. And I say okay to that, because I understand the impulse. But the crazy thing is losing yourself slowly, piece by piece, just to accommodate others. That's why I'm still learning to hold my own shape in the presence of others.

I just want a change that feels light because I placed the effort into having it.

Some days I fear I tap out too much as an introvert — that I retreat so far into my own world that I miss the connections right in front of me. But I'm learning that introversion isn't a flaw; it's a rhythm. And if I have to apologize for needing space, I will. But I won't apologize for needing it.

If I had to say it for the hundredth time, I will gladly: I love it here on Substack. It feels peaceful and homely — a quiet corner of the internet where words are not consumed but received. Knowing that people read your words from the heart, not just with their eyes, is a gift I don't take lightly.

So this is me, putting it all out there. The clarity I'm finally brave enough to speak aloud: I want a love that stays. I want a worship that's deep.

Maybe the point is to keep showing up to the page, to the prayer, To keep believing that the yellow people will come — and that sometimes, we get to be the yellow person for someone else.

If these words touched something in you, if they made you feel seen or a little less alone, consider supporting my work.

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•A reference photograph from Pinterest

In many workplaces, the loudest voice is often read as the most capable. Confidence is assigned to volume, while quietness is quietly interrogated; misread as detachment, sadness, or even incompetence.

“This is the violence of a loud world”.

A society deeply shaped by external validation often struggles to recognize those who do not perform for constant applause. Yet, within this structure, the introvert is rarely considered with depth. A person comfortable in solitude is difficult to manipulate because they have learned the discipline of inner company.

This is why the introvert unsettles the modern world.

Every morning, begins with a quiet negotiation between selfhood and survival. How much energy must be sacrificed today?, How much personality must be edited into something socially acceptable?, How many meetings must be survived before silence finally feels earned?.

You begin dreading Mondays in ways you cannot explain. You come home strangely empty, not physically tired, but psychologically overdrawn. Your weekends no longer feel restorative enough. Conversations begin to feel like obligations. Even the smallest social interactions at work start carrying weight.

All because society has normalized this suffering, a teenager watching out for workers can convince themselves that perhaps adulthood may look like that.

But, the problem is never laziness.

Your job is quietly violating the architecture of your personality. Somewhere along the evolution of modern living, we began to mistake loudness for life itself.

Modernization is now turned to an escape to validate “an extrovert imagination”. Brainstorming sessions in offices, originally initiated from the walls of a classroom, often allowed the loudest ideas win. It becomes a culture where speaking often appears more valuable than thinking deeply.

Silence is not the same as lack of intelligence.

Some people don’t respond quickly because they are thinking deeply. They process things inside first before they speak. But in fast environments, this silence is often misunderstood as confusion or lack of interest.

How would you know a person’s capability without them speaking at all?.

There’s no issue in speaking, but in constant performance.

The problem starts when the loudest person becomes the “leadership material”, while the thoughtful one is called passive .

A few weeks ago, a conversation with my cousin stayed with me. “The greatest injustice of many workplaces is not overwork, but assumption.” As she said it, I imagined the quiet exhaustion of a young worker in her mid-twenties…

The assumption that the most vocal person is the most competent. Yet, Organizations rarely stop to ask themselves: “How can we truly know the intellectual depth of those we never intentionally test” ?.

Ideas should be invited, not extracted only from familiar voices, responsibility should be distributed widely for hidden intelligence to surface.

The future of our western world will not be decided by those who have mastered the art of speaking, but by a far more difficult truth:

Whose brilliance have we failed to test ?

If this conversation interested you, click the subscribe button below >3.💐

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Hello,

I have always thought moving on belonged to other people. The people who know how to leave rooms without carrying pieces of the furniture home in their chest.

Especially those who meant something to me, not just “they were good people”, but those whom I shared memories that I still cannot forget. I remember too much, I remember laughter held like scripts, the miracles people never realize they are becoming while they’re happening.

I mean I have receipts for these memories.

Sometimes -scratch that -most times,

The mind is wired in such a way to remember the good ways people helped us. But what about the days they hurt you so badly that you indeed thought if they told you last Easter, that they would do such a thing, You would immediately say:

God forbid. Not them. And Never them.

I was watching a video on my phone recently. you know Snapchat has a way of resurrecting memories which are now turned into corners of your camera roll- memories, and I thought memories are simply beautiful past events, and that’s when it struck me.

“Past”.

We romanticize memories a little too much…

Which is good,

But, I’d recommend letting times live in their moments. Not carrying old wounds and recount them to the present tense.

Yes, they hurt me. But people are exactly like seasons.

No season ask for permission to leave. They were in your life for the moment it was ordained. Rain doesn’t kneel and apologize before disappearing. Harmattan doesn’t stay because the trees begged. Even the sun knows when to soften and hand the sky back to darkness.

Sometimes the people we begged heaven to keep become the very people heaven quietly teaches us to release.

And when you feel a little too guilty for moving from those relationships?

Remember this:

You’re not strange for outgrowing places your soul no longer survives in. And not every ending is betrayal.

Sometimes, life simply continues.

And maybe moving on, is remembering without bleeding.

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Dearest gentle reader,

https://open.spotify.com/track/6L7inR6StdWbaK3OhoNf3g?si=6zt_fygnRbanwrW6vZtdVg

I almost wrote you something punchy today.

A headline with alliteration. A postscript designed to be screenshotted. But that's not why you opened this.

So instead, I'll just say this slowly:

The chip in your favorite mug?

The silence that fell in the car after you said the wrong thing?

The way your hands look at 6 PM—tired, still trying?

God doesn't want to Photoshop any of it.

Your prayers that feel “mumbled” and “messy” and “not quite holy enough”? Those are the ones I lean in to hear. Give me the cracked voice at 2 AM.

There's a Japanese word —wabi-sabi—that doesn't translate neatly. It means something like: the beauty of what's weathered, imperfect, incomplete.

And here's what I keep coming back to:

What if God isn't the perfectionist we were told to fear?

There’re instances in the Bible that makes this question valid, from different characters to instances;

1. Rahab — From Broken Past to Sacred Purpose

Rahab’s story beautifully reflects how God sees value in what society often rejects. She was known as a prostitute in Jericho, someone many people would have dismissed or judged. Yet, when the Israelite spies came into Jericho, Rahab chose faith over fear. She protected the spies, risking her own life because she believed in the God of Israel and trusted His power (Joshua 2).

Instead of defining her by her past, God honored her faith. Rahab was brought into the covenant community of Israel and eventually became part of the family line through which Jesus Christ came. Her life moved from rejection to redemption, from shame to significance.

2. Moses — Chosen Despite Weakness

Moses struggled with speaking and doubted his ability to lead. When God called him to confront Pharaoh and deliver Israel, Moses hesitated and pointed to his speech difficulty, feeling inadequate for such a great task (Exodus 4:10).

Yet God did not withdraw the calling because of Moses’ weakness. Instead, God reassured him and provided help through Aaron while still allowing Moses to fulfill his purpose.

3. David — Imperfect Yet Pursuing God

David was deeply flawed. He failed morally, made painful mistakes, and faced serious consequences for his actions. Yet, David also had a heart that continually turned back to God in repentance.

Despite his failures, David wrote many of the Psalms—poems filled with grief, worship, joy, regret, longing, and trust in God. His honesty before God became part of scripture and continues to comfort people today.

David was still described as “a man after God’s own heart,” not because he was perfect, but because he continually sought God even after falling.

4. The Cross

While he hangs there -bleeding, thirsty, looking like a failure — he's doing something no one notices.

He's collecting.

Every insult. Every tear from a mother. Every soldier who didn't want to be there. Every thief who only stole because he was hungry. Every crack in every human who ever lived — he gathers them like broken pottery shards into his lap.

And when he finally says, "It is finished" — that's not surrender. That's the whisper of an artist stepping back from the canvas.

Because what he's about to do next is the most ridiculous, beautiful, wabi-sabi thing of all.

Three days later, he gets up.

Not to fix the cracks.

But to prove something:

Nothing you break is beyond my mending. And nothing you mend has to look new.

There is also a Japanese art called kintsugi — the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold.

God should understand kintsugi. Right?

Because so much of faith feels like being remade with trembling hands.

A woman with a past becomes part of redemption’s story. A stammering man leads nations. A shepherd boy with failures still writes songs heaven listens to. Again and again, scripture whispers the same truth: God does not wait for perfection before calling something beautiful.

And finally, before you judge yourself, I want this letter to be a returning place — somewhere you can run back to when the world feels too loud, or too much.

You are doing just fine.

And when everything feels too strange to simply let slide, do not let anything steal your peace of mind.

God sees you.

He knew your story before you were born, before the ache, before the becoming, before the parts of you that cracked under the weight of living. And still, He called you toward His light.

Maybe to learn that beauty was never in perfection, but in being human. In becoming. In carrying the cracks without shame.

So when that moment comes –when self-doubt knocks, when life feels messy, when you feel too imperfect to be held,

say: Wabi-sabi.

Move on.

There is beauty waiting for you.

Nigeria is the sixth-most populous country on earth — 242 million opinions, each one certain it knows better than the other. We border Niger, Chad, Cameroon, Benin. To the south, the Atlantic took our ancestors and sometimes, in dreams, sends them back. Lagos is not a city; it is a galaxy that forgot its own edge. Abuja is the capital on paper, but the real capital is wherever a danfo conductor shouts "Move!"

Pinterest

The historians do not completely state the origin- Nigeria did not begin 1914. That was just when almagamation was done You have heard of the Nok culture, yes? The terracotta heads with the half-closed eyes, found near Jos. But what they do not tell you is that the Nok were already smelting iron by 500 BC. Just villages of sculptors and smiths who buried their finest work under their own floors—as if to say, let the earth keep what the heavens left for us to carry.

From Pinterest

That the Ijebu sealed their borders for four hundred years and minted their own currency — the ozou — which circulated from Timbuktu to the coast. That in Sukur, walls built a thousand years ago still hold without a single drop of mortar. A razor blade cannot slip between those stones.

Why the Love Should Grow,

First, because the people are alchemists. Give a Nigerian bad roads, and she invents a traffic economy—selling plantain chips, car chargers, and a smile at every standstill. Give a Nigerian a blackout, and he becomes a solar engineer by YouTube. The hustle is not a crime; it is a liturgy. We do not survive in spite of our failures; we create because of them. That is not resilience as cliché. That is resilience as art.

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Second, because the land holds poetry you cannot translate. The Mambilla Plateau, where green rolls like a swallowed continent. The Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, where art and deity hold hands under iroko trees. The sand dunes of Borno that hide lakes from satellites. The mangrove cathedrals of the Niger Delta, where crocodiles watch like bishops. These are not postcards. These are proofs that geography can forgive politics.

And third—because of a young man. The Traveler Who Walks Backward Into Light, one of our favorite here.

His full name is Tobechukwu. But everyone calls him Tobe.

Tobe is not a journalist. He is more of an influencer, at least not the kind that sells teeth whitener. He is a traveler that shows the aesthetics of our homeland.

That is what makes the masses see beauty. Not the gloss. Not the drone shots of Victoria Island at night. But the permission to stay in the ordinary, and find that it was never ordinary.

Nigeria is not a mistake. It is an unfinished sentence. And you do not reading a sentence because it has a comma."

That comma is what we call "the problems." I will not list them. You know them. They sit on your chest like a wet blanket every time you light a candle. The rhythm of the danfo conductor. The smell of rain on hot asphalt in Warri. The way a stranger in a market will call you "my sister" or "my brother" before she even knows your name. That is not sentiment. That is tissue. You cannot transplant it.  But like a scar becomes skin, we have spent 110 years learning to beat a common heart.

And that is where the love must grow. Not for the Nigeria of headlines—

So, I pray

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Let the roads remember their purpose.

Let God be seen mightily as a drift wind that makes here become safe and homely.

God bless NIGERIA.

Amen, or however you say

"Let it be so".

We are raised on a diet of fairy tales and blockbuster romances that sell us a single, intoxicating idea: real love is supposed to consume you.

Here is the secret that cautious lovers will never understand: losing yourself is the point.

In consuming love, the small self—the anxious, calculating, defensive little ego that worries about looking foolish or losing independence—simply evaporates. And what replaces it is enormous. You become part of the person.

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Think of the classic imagery. The lover who would burn down a city. The couple who abandons their families for a midnight escape. The protagonist who declares, “I can’t live without you.

”We are taught to equate the intensity of our feelings with the validity of our connection. If it doesn’t hurt a little, if it doesn’t occupy every waking thought, is it even love?

But there is a dangerous seduction in the word consume. To consume means to eat, to devour, to use up entirely. And perhaps that is precisely why some of us still crave it—not because we wish to disappear, but because we are tired of remaining unloved to that extent.

Because some loves do not simply accompany you through life. Some rearrange the architecture of your becoming.

They ask something terrifying of you: vulnerability without guarantee. Devotion without calculation. The willingness to stop performing indifference and admit, with frightening honesty, you matter enough to undo me.

But what about your identity?

The critics will whine: “But you lose yourself!”

To which I say: Good!

The self you lose is the one that was too small to contain this much feeling. That old self—the one who worried about seeming “too needy,” who calculated how long to wait before texting back, who kept a secret escape route in every relationship—that self deserved to die.

Consuming love is the phoenix fire that burns away the cowardly version of you and leaves behind someone willing to risk everything.

Don’t settle for a love that asks for your time. Demand the love that asks for your soul.

Let it consume you.

Let it rebuild you into something fiercer and stranger and more beautiful than the careful.

Because the opposite of consuming love isn’t healthy love.

It’s no love at all.

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I wasn’t supposed to write this, but guess who convicted me to say how I truly feel…

Aching for a restoration that was never meant to be shattered.

Sitting so still, waiting to be comforted… but guess who made you experience all of that?

The same one you want to run to for help.

And the weirdest thing about it, is that you’re in a room full of light, yet it feels farther than present.

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Then you begin to discover the strangest ifs…

What if your escape is reality?

What if the thing drawing you back is your own self?

No one is fighting you.

It’s all you, your own guidance, your own protective walls, standing against you.

But the only help feels like pain.

I remember…

“And I shall not want…”

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” ✨🌸

https://open.spotify.com/track/4iTVGi4ntXuooL6J92COYN?si=wI8k6QhCQziPn1vOdimZfw

And perhaps that is what mercy looks like.

Not the disappearance of pain.

But a soft place to rest beside it.

A place where your tired feet no longer have to prove how much they can endure.

A place where healing does not rush you.

A place where peace finally stops asking you to explain your sadness before it lets you in.

Anyways…

Enough about me always wondering 😭💌Please, how are my pookies doing though?

The Joy Letters❤️